The Wistful Throne
The vial in Elias’s hand was heavy, a dense cylinder of gray sludge that caught the sterile white light of the office and held it there, refusing to refract, refusing to let it pass through to the wall behind him where the calendar marked the date of Mara’s final scheduled checkup, a date he had already mentally erased from the week’s grid. He sat in the ergonomic chair that cost more than his...
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